16. Jake
Chapter sixteen
Jake
S earing pain flashes through my shoulder. I see stars as my head collides with the ice, my helmet absorbing only some of the impact. Cold shards of ice from razor sharp skates splash on my face as two referees come to a screeching halt right by my face. I feel hands on me, trying to get me up and off the ice.
I use my good arm to push everyone away. I have to be strong. I have to pretend that I’m not in pain. I can’t let anyone see my weakness. They’ll just use it against me. These thoughts, this understanding of how men on the ice are, push me to a sitting position. I grit my teeth, use my good arm to push me to my knees, and then I stand.
The crowd erupts into a cheer that fills the stadium. I need to give them something to believe in. These are fans who are here today to see the Eagles win, not to see me let us all down. Pain covers me from my shoulder, down my arm, and up my neck. All I feel is pain. All I want is relief.
Gator and the guys surround me in a loose circle, tradition when one of our own goes down to try to keep the cameras from being able to zoom in and see any moment of weakness. I am vaguely aware of his voice, of the referees’ voices, and then as I force myself to skate to the bench, of Coach’s voice.
The circle of players breaks enough for me to step off the ice. I can hear the loud, pulsating music as the arena adjusts to play being stopped. I hear Coach yelling at the assistant captain to get his line ready. I’m in a daze. I’m disoriented. I’m burning up and I’m also shockingly cold. The temperature swings alone tell me that this was no small hit I just took—this is huge.
Coach’s voice is in my ear as he grips my good arm. “We had this under wraps. But some jerkoff on the other team took an intentional hit on you. His ass is in the penalty box, but I’m yelling at the referees here to review the footage. He needs to be expelled.”
His words are too rapid fire for my woozy brain. I can’t even focus on him. I feel like I might puke. It’s debilitating to realize that I probably have a concussion. That’ll mean several days or weeks off the ice. I open my mouth to swear, but it just makes my head pound more.
Jones is now standing where Coach was. I realize then that they want me out of sight and back in the locker rooms. Jones is telling me to walk. Coach is yelling at the referees. Gator is telling me I better get out of view of the cameras.
How do I tell them that walking out right now feels like the end of my career? I can’t leave. I can’t be written off as a has been and let some young guys take over. I can’t do it. So I stay there. Jones tries to forcibly move me, but without being able to touch one entire side of my torso due to my bum shoulder, his efforts are in vain.
The lights in the arena go down as the break lengthens and the team’s AV crew try to cover for me by playing some team promo video on the Jumbotron. I think of Allie on the Jumbotron.
I find myself saying one word over and over again: Allie.
I won’t leave the ice or the bench without her. It’s stupid. She made her choice to not be there for me last night, but in my moment of need, she’s all I want. The pain from my head sends another wave of nausea through me. Only then do I lift my eyes up from their dogged stare down at the rubber flooring. I had been zoning out, focusing on nothing like a mummy locked in place.
Small hands circle my waist, with one supporting my muscled abs and the other on my lower back. Allie.
I can’t hear a word she’s saying, but I know she wants me to move. In my skates I tower over her more than usual, and we take wobbly steps toward the hallway that will take us away from the ice… maybe forever. I don’t know why I demanded her presence. And I don’t know why right now having her by my side makes everything better. I just know that it does.
The sudden movement from the darkened arena to the hallway and then to the brightly lit back hallways sends my head spinning. Definitely a concussion. I can’t find my words without my head splitting.
“Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just listen. I’m here. We’re going to stabilize your body temperature. You’re freezing cold, Jake. And you’re sweating.” Allie’s voice is strong. She sounds so sure.
“Then we will see if you need to go to the ER,” Jones adds.
I groan my reply. “No.”
I don’t want to go to a hospital. I don’t want this to become a big deal. I just want a pill or a shot to make the pain go away. Then, I want to get back out there on the ice. I need to get back there on the ice.
I sink down onto a metal bench outside the showers. Two PTs start to take my skates off. Jones pulls off my jersey and my undershirt. I feel him gently prodding my shoulder. In light of the pain of my head, the shoulder pain feels like a one out of ten.
I’m about to call out for Allie, but every movement of my head sends the room spinning. Then she’s there, by my side. She straddles the bench next to me, looking at me with earnest eyes. Her bedside manner is soft and gentle. Her hand on my arm is kind.
“I wanna get out there,” I manage to croak out.
I expect her to snort at me, to ridicule me for being stupid. To tell me that it’s impossible. But she doesn’t. She nods. She rubs my arm. She scoots closer to me. But she doesn’t tell me no… or yes.
I’m being pulled to my feet. I lose it right there, puking into a small bucket that one of the PTs has magically produced by the bench.
“Concussion,” Jones says in a tone far too severe. I prefer Allie’s gentle ways over his gruff, matter-of-fact tone.
I’m shivering under the lights of the locker room. I hate that anyone is seeing me this way, so weak. I reach out my good arm and put it on Allie’s shoulder. No one will be watching me shower but her. I don’t even care if that reveals to everyone here that we have been naked together before. I need comfort. I need Allie.
The male PTs loiter and hang back, each one saying what treatment I should receive after my shower. I’m shivering like a naked man stranded in Alaska by the time I’m in the shower room. Jones turns on the water and steam instantly wafts around the stream of water.
“Five minutes,” he says to Allie. “Then bring him out. He needs electrolytes. He needs to be better soon if we are going to avoid a hospital trip.”
Allie says something in reply, then we’re left alone. I feel her hands unapologetically pulling my underwear down, then I’m standing under the stream of the hot water. I don’t know how long I’m there, but I know I’m not alone. She’s standing nearby, her eyes locked onto my face and onto my eyes each time I can focus them on her.
She’s acting cool and professional, but I know her. She’s scared for me. There’s a certain pointed look behind her calm demeanor that gives her away. Hockey injuries like mine are funny little things—they aren’t like a scrape or scratch or a bloody nose. They aren’t visible. So it’s hard to take them seriously until they either don’t go away or they start impacting your daily life.
Now, with a concussion on top of my mysteriously slowly healing shoulder, well, I have reason to be scared. And if she has any feelings at all for me, I guess her fear makes sense, too.
“Okay, let’s get you out and dressed now,” her voice fills my mind, shaking me out of my thoughts, my feelings.
“I felt like I might pass out,” I say in a hoarse voice, my throat dry.
She nods as she hands me a towel. I start to dry off, but it throws me off balance. I panic, then. She is by my side.
“I’ll do it. I’ve got you, Jake.”
Her blue eyes land on mine, and I relax. I know it’s her job to help me, but I think I see more in the depths of those baby blues than professional obligation. She takes the towel and rubs it against my skin, slowly and carefully, from the waist up. Then she hesitates.
We’re alone in the locker room showers, the doorway open, but the PTs and Jones are nowhere in our line of sight.
“Um, you can do the rest,” she says softly.
I catch her hand as she holds the towel out to me. “You weren’t home last night.”
I look at her then have to close my eyes. Focusing on anything hurts my brain.
“Jake, I—” she starts to say.
“All finished in there?” Dr. Jones says. He rounds the corner, sees that I’m putting a towel on and that Allie is an acceptable distance away, then nods. “Hurry it up. Coach and half the nation are breathing down my neck, wanting to know how our star hockey player is doing. I have to give them an update.”
“All finished,” Allie chirps out. She looks at me. “Which locker is yours? I’ll get you something to put on.”
I give in to my fate. The physical connection I long to feel with Allie will have to wait. “Third from the left.”
I let Allie help me get dressed and then let Jones all but shove an electrolyte drink down my throat. Admittedly, I feel like a new man after that. Allie hands me a soft granola bar, but when I start to eat it, I feel an overwhelming urge to throw up. She and Jones exchange worried looks.
“What is it?” I ask desperately as I walk with my entourage of PTs and Jones to the PT room. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
I’ve had a concussion before. Two, actually. I’ve always been able to shake them off. I’ve always taken ten minutes on the bench, got my head together, and then taken myself right back on the ice. That’s what a real warrior does. That’s the man I used to be.
This toddling guy who can’t even keep food down is not a man I recognize. It’s not the man that I want to be.
I look at Jones. “Give me a shot. That’s what Juan would do. That’s what I want. It’s my body, so just shoot me up with something. I have to get back out there.”
No one meets my gaze. Except for Allie.